


Morning Comes

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Morning After, extreme fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After what must have been quite a night, The Hunter and Alfred go about their day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Comes

A slant of light filters through the crack in the blinds and hits Alfred’s eyes in a perfectly horrendous way. The brightness makes him stir, cover his eyes, then bury his face into the pillow. The smell makes him sit up with a start; that is not the smell of his pillow, not at all. And his bedroom looks entirely unfamiliar, as though everything had been rearranged or replaced, as though he were in a different room entirely–

He looks down. Beside him, sleeping peacefully, is the Hunter.

Alfred puts a hand to his face, and blushes. He thinks to wake them, if only to confirm his suspicions – “Last night, did we–” he imagines himself asking frantically – but decides against it. Perhaps they aren’t a morning person. The chance of them being annoyed at having been woken up is too upsetting for Alfred to bear. He eases himself off the bed, quiet for such a large man, and makes his way to the bathroom.

It is, like the bedroom, a well-kept space. The Hunter seems fastidious, if anything. They don’t know each other well, Alfred is ashamed to admit, but he feels he could glean some sort of vital information from the things the Hunter surrounds themselves with. He opens the medicine cabinet. Nothing, save for a bottle of aspirin and a few hair pins. He closes the cabinet and examines himself in the mirror. Tired eyes, heavy still with sleep. A red mark on his neck. He can guess the cause, but he can’t remember the method of delivery, no matter how he tries.

One thing comforts him: not a curl of hair is out of place. Alfred smiles at that. A useless talent, to be sure, but it saves time in the morning.

Downstairs, the kitchen is just as tidy as the bathroom. Throwing back the curtains to let the morning light in, memories of the night before return to Alfred. An errant kiss, a hand on his lower back, himself above a small, lithe body–

He bites his lip.

To think he’d be so careless as to drink! And to forget! He curses himself for it, now.

Perhaps if he busies himself, the thoughts will return on their own. He roots through cabinetry until he finds what he’s looking for: pans, dishes, silverware. He may as well make himself useful.

**

When the Hunter wakes up, it is not because of the sun, but because of a familiar smell: bacon. And the sound of humming! They rub the sleep from their eyes, noting the disheveled bed covers next to them. So it wasn’t a dream, they think. They run their fingers over the pillow, where his head must have been. Not a dream at all.

Briefly, and with little success, they attempt to tame their messy hair. Finding no point in trying further, they throw on their shirt and head downstairs.

In the kitchen is Alfred, half-naked, singlemindedly working away at the stove.

The Hunter eyes Alfred’s back – they blush, admiring the musculature – and sees a neatly tied bow.

 

“You found my apron,” the Hunter says.

With a start, Alfred whirls around, placing his hand over his heart. “Gracious!” he says. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry. I have a habit of creeping up on people,” they say. “The apron looks good, though.”

The Hunter eyes his pecs, the nipples visible through the fabric, and then his arms, perfectly strong and warm as they are. They smile, thinking of his honed muscles being used for such a domestic purpose as cooking. And his hair, they notice with a frown, is perfect. How?

Alfred waves the spatula about jocularly.

“Safety first,” he says, noticing their gaze. “And keeping clean, as well, is important.”

The Hunter nods. They make their way over to the counter top, and hoist themselves up. Alfred looks quite at home cooking, they notice, and the bacon looks perfect. As they let their gaze wander over his body again – those shoulders! – they think the view, in general, looks perfect.

The Hunter clears their throat. “Last night–”

They look at Alfred. The hand holding the spatula stills, poised over the pan. His green eyes shift toward them; their heart stutters, as does their tongue. They lose their words.

“Last night?” he prompts.

“You were… good,” the Hunter says evenly. They don’t know what’s making them so reticent. They want to throw their arms around him, kiss him again, sing his praises to the streets–

“You were also… good,” Alfred says, smiling. He seems to understand the Hunter’s hesitance. “Though I do wish I hadn’t had so much to drink! Recalling the whole thing has been a bit of a challenge.”

He moves some bacon from the pan to a plate. The Hunter waits, then takes a piece. Cooked to perfection, of course.

“Perhaps, after breakfast,” the Hunter begins, carefully, “there can be a repeat performance.”

Alfred laughs and, with his free hand, tugs on his earlobe. His cheeks are red. He’s got a small earring the Hunter hadn’t noticed the night before. “Yes,” he says, after a pause. “I don’t believe I have any pressing plans.”

The Hunter leans forward, ever careful, and lays their hand on his cheek. They turn his head to them, and lay a small kiss on his lips. He returns it with such tenderness, the Hunter wants to cry.

They study each other, for a moment. Then: “Don’t let it burn!” the Hunter says.


End file.
